


The Best Defense VI: The Cycle of Life

by kronette



Series: Best Defense [6]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos had lost a good friend in Don Salzer, but it was another Immortal friend his thoughts turned to first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Defense VI: The Cycle of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 1999 under my other pseud, Shelley Wright.

Paris, May 1995  
~~~~~~~~

Methos felt colder than he had in a long time. It wasn't a physical cold that he could abate by starting a fire and bundling up. No, this was a coldness that permeated his dreams and his soul. He had been numb for close to two years now. The numbness was starting to wear off and it was painful to remember.

Hunters, they called themselves. Self-proclaimed "cleansers" of the planet.

Watchers that had killed Darius.

Another shiver rippled up Methos' spine and he took a gulp of scotch to try and blot out the memories. But they returned, unbidden and unwanted.

After Methos had said good-bye to Darius that sunny afternoon, he had gone back to Watcher Headquarters and resumed his research into the myth of himself. Researching Methos was actually fun most of the time. His recollections were 180 degrees from the events described in the Chronicles. If he had done half of what the Watchers thought Methos capable of, he would be the most powerful man who ever lived.

As it was, he was huddled on the floor of his flat in the dark, trying to drink himself into oblivion.

He was too quiet in Headquarters. That was his problem. No one thought to check if he was hidden in the shadows.

So was the case when James Horton led three other Watchers down to the recesses of the archives. "Did you wipe the blade clean?" Horton asked.

"Yes," another answered. Methos didn't recognize him; he might not be from the European Division. At least not the Parisian one. But he knew Horton was involved in the Hunters. He might even be one of their leaders; Methos hadn't found proof of that yet.

Horton obviously didn't like that answer, as he snatched the sword and wiped it down himself. "There can be no evidence of blood anywhere, do you understand? They must not be able to trace Darius' death back to us."

At that instant, Methos went numb. Thankfully he had nothing to drop, because his fingers refused to cooperate. They had killed Darius? No, they couldn't have. What would be the purpose? Darius hadn't been in the Game for centuries. He harmed no one. He  _harbored_ people, for God's sake!

A different man spoke up nervously. "You sure all Immortals are bad? I mean, that guy was a priest. I felt funny killin' a priest."

"That abomination was a killer. They are all killers," Horton snapped. He looked around his gathered minions, staring each of them in the eye. "They wear our clothes but they do not believe in our God. They think themselves superior to the human race. He did not deserve to live."

Methos closed his eyes and tried not to think.

_deserve to live_

He willed himself to get up and kill the bastards right in their own basement.

_deserve to live_

_They_ were the abominations.  _They_ didn't deserve to live. They infected the very earth they claimed to protect with their prejudice and hatred.

"Does anyone have an objection to that?" Horton hissed menacingly. "I chose people who thought the same as I. If you do not..."

_deserve to live_

"No, no," the guy amended hastily. "Wipe 'em all out."

There was a pregnant pause, then Horton sneered, "Good." Footsteps faded up the stairs and Methos was once again alone.

More alone that he had felt in a very long time.

Approximately 700 years.

He pushed himself to his feet, stood for a moment to get his bearings, then walked calmly up the stairs and out of HQ. He kept walking straight to the liquor store near his house and spent every franc in his pocket on booze, then walked the rest of the way to his flat. He bolted the door, took off his coat and carried his purchases to the bed. He slid down until his back rested against the foot of the bed, opened the first bottle, and had been drinking steadily ever since. He had no knowledge of the passage of time. He was, to put it frankly, sloshed out of his mind. It is possible for an Immortal to get drunk and stay drunk, if the keep up a steady diet of alcohol. And that's what he had been doing: eating, drinking and sleeping booze.

_deserve to die_

But he had run out of alcohol an indeterminate about of time ago and the edges of his foggy existence were sharpening.

_deserve to die_

He picked himself off the floor, put on his coat, and stumbled outside. His feet knew the way to Darius' church so he let them carry him without thought. He reached the iron gate and stopped, waiting for Darius to feel his Buzz and welcome him inside. It took him a moment to realize he hadn't felt Darius. His mind was blank as he pushed open the gate and stepped onto Holy Ground. He stumbled his way to the door and raised his hand to knock. It seemed like such an odd gesture. He looked at his hand; he looked at the door. It felt wrong. It  _was_ wrong. A choked sob caught in his throat as he sank to his knees on the hard ground.

"My son," a voice called, and Methos' mind instantly filled in Darius' gentle smile; his beckoning hand ushering him inside. He blinked and the illusion was gone. It was Brother Theodore, a friend of Darius'. "Come inside," the kindly old man insisted.

Methos allowed himself to be brought inside. He stood awkwardly in the entranceway, his center off-kilter. He hadn't realized how much he had come to depend on Darius. This wasn't right. Darius should have been one of the last of them. He should have been  _the_ last Immortal.

His feet propelled him to walk up the center aisle toward the altar. He stopped in the first row, something he had not been able to do in over ten years, and sat down in the first seat. He clasped his hands and stared up at the crucifix, seeing a different time; a different place.

"Would you care for a meal, my son?" Brother Theodore's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I'm not...hungry," Methos replied, his voice a rasp.

"You were a friend of Brother Darius, weren't you?" the holy man asked suddenly. "Yes, I remember you used to visit him."

Methos' head dropped to his chest and his nails dug into the backs of his hands. "He was a very old friend," he whispered hoarsely.

Brother Theodore settled in the chair next to him. "I do not remember seeing you at the funeral."

"I could not attend. I was..." Methos started to lie, then heard Darius' voice chiding him, 'Lying to a man of the cloth? Methos, surely I taught you better than that.' "I couldn't attend," he repeated and left it at that. He owed no one there any explanation. He was Darius' friend, not theirs.

"It was a well-attended funeral. Darius had a lot of friends and loved ones."

"I know," Methos whispered. Why couldn't he tell Theodore to leave him alone?

"Why have you come now?"

Because he needed to feel that connection with Darius again. He wanted to talk with Darius and get his sage advice. He wanted to argue over a chess board and share moss tea. He said none of these things out loud. They were his thoughts to retain. Instead, he stated, "I want to know that he is at peace."

A hand rested on his shoulder. It was a simple touch, but it was comforting. "He is, my son. God has given him a place in His kingdom."

"I doubt He has a place for me," he muttered, keeping his head bowed.

"You are too young to think of such things, but God has a place for all of us. You should be out living, not grieving for those who have passed on. Darius would not have wanted this from his friends."

The words sounded so much like something Darius would have said that tears welled in Methos' eyes. "He said something similar to me once."

"Then perhaps you should listen to him." Theodore stood up and folded his hands. "I will leave you now. Stay as long as you wish."

Theodore's footsteps faded away, leaving Methos alone in the high-ceiling church. His gaze traveled over the altar, passed the pulpit where Darius preached every other Saturday, to the stained glass windows on the far left. Sunlight filtered through, sending bright spots of color to highlight the concrete floor.

Like the bright spot of Darius bringing  _life_ to his life. Maybe it was time to take the old man's advice. Maybe it was time to come out of the bottle and start accepting the things that had happened. To start to live.

But first, he had a lot of pain to work through. Darius was old pain; two years old now. Don Salzer had been killed only last night. That pain was fresh. It still cut deep, but not nearly as deep as the loss of Darius. But he would survive it, as he had every other pain in his life. He was a survivor; it was what he did best. He would honor them by remembering their names.

He took a deep breath and stood up. He felt better. Maybe a bit of Darius had survived the attack and resided in the atmosphere of the church he had called home for so long. Maybe a part of him would always be there. Methos would have to remember that the next time he felt sorry for himself. Even from beyond the grave, Darius could still give him a swift kick in the pants.

Methos left the church with a smile on his face.

He went back to his flat and scrubbed himself clean. He put on fresh clothes and made his way to Watcher Headquarters, thinking along the way. The Watchers were still trying to figure out who had killed Don...or that's what they wanted everyone to believe. He knew it was Kalas, an Immortal who had escaped from jail several days ago. The Watchers wanted that information kept secret. It wouldn't do to let on that Immortals knew about them. Methos also knew about the "special" relationship MacLeod had with his Watcher, Joe Dawson. Dawson had been revealed as a Watcher to MacLeod over a year ago, but there had been no repercussions from that event. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened because of their secret being exposed. But this was different. Don wasn't a field agent; he was a researcher. There was no way Kalas could have known he was a Watcher unless someone told him. But who would have told him?

The latest meeting at Watcher Headquarters answered that question for him: Roger. Two Watchers dead in the span of 36 hours - to an Immortal. It was unprecedented. It was unheard of. And it scared the upper echelons shitless. Adam watched with morbid amusement as Jack Shaprio paced back and forth in front of the assembled Watchers, explaining to them what had happened. Kalas had discovered his Watcher, Roger, and killed him. Less than a day later, Jaques Vemas had found Donald Salzer dead in his bookstore.

Methos closed his eyes as he remembered Roger from his academy days. He had been a bit high-strung, but a very competent Watcher. He wouldn't have been so careless as to have been caught by his assignment. Something wasn't right about this whole thing. The Watchers were sure that Kalas killed Roger and Don because they were Watchers, but Methos wondered at that. That was too convenient an excuse. There were easily dozens of Watchers in Paris; any number that Kalas could have gotten to. No, there was something more sinister at work.

He kept a low profile as he passed by the various security posts deeper into HQ. He sat at a computer in the shadows and hacked quietly into the official autopsy reports. Despite everything he had been; everything he had done and seen, he still paled. Electrodes applied to the temporal lobe. Gods, the agony must have been incredible. He hissed as he felt pain; looking down, he saw his fist had clenched and his nails had cut deep into his palm. His gaze slid around the room, but no one was paying him any attention. He dug out a handkerchief and wiped at the blood, waiting for the cuts to heal.

So Kalas hadn't just killed him; he had tortured him. He wanted information. About what, though? And what was the connection to Don? Roger was a field agent, Don was a researcher. Don didn't have any information about active Immortals; what could Roger have told him - the cuts on his palm were forgotten as a cold chill raced down his spine. Immortals. Locations. Weaknesses. He was on his feet and walking quickly out of HQ before he let that train of thought expand any further.

Once he was outside in the cold, his head cleared enough to think again.  _He_ was the missing link. Nearly every Immortal knew of Methos, the oldest of their kind. And more than he cared to think about would be after his head if they knew he was really alive. Don had been more than attached to the Methos Project; he had been invaluable in setting up the position again. Don had the misfortune of knowing about Methos - and had died because of it.

Little good it did Kalas. Don didn't know Adam Pierson was Methos. He was, however, the next logical person Kalas would go after as head of the Methos Project, if Don had talked. The fact that his tongue was cut out wasn't enough evidence. Kalas had either gotten the information and killed Don to make sure he didn't tell anyone else, or Don had said nothing, and in Kalas' rage, had killed him anyway. Either way, Adam Pierson figured he was due for a visit from an old Immortal very soon.

~~~

Methos went back to his flat and did some quick research on Kalas. He was on a killing rampage; Immortal and Watcher alike, with a few regular mortals tossed in for good measure. He had made a lot of enemies through the years, including Duncan MacLeod. Maybe Kalas wanted a better advantage against MacLeod. Methos' power would certainly give him that.

Kalas also had a damn good shot at winning the Prize, but so did MacLeod. Two different men with completely different morals. One too far in the dark, one too far in the light. MacLeod he could probably work with and make more into someone worthy to win the Prize. Kalas was a lost cause. He had to be dealt with.

Methos chuckled humorlessly. He hadn't taken a head in over 200 years. And since he rejoined the Watchers, he had let his swordwork slide. Did he really think he could take Kalas in his current condition? He knew he wasn't strong enough. He hadn't had the passion needed to defeat someone that determined in centuries.

He closed his journals with a world-weary sigh. If Kalas was to be defeated, it would take someone with a lot more fire than himself to kill him. He only hoped someone like that passed through Paris soon, before more Watchers were killed. And Adam Pierson's secret was exposed.

~~~~~

He still felt cold. He was sitting on his floor, a blanket wrapped around himself as he leaned against the side of the bed. His long legs were tucked to his chest with his arms balanced on his knees, the same position he had been in since Joe Dawson's phone call.

His mind revolved around Dawson's bombshell - he was sending over Duncan MacLeod to protect Adam. His morbid sense of humor kicked in and he chuckled darkly. Wouldn't that be a shock? Instead of finding a mild-mannered, helpless grad student, to discover an Immortal? Of course, he didn't have to be here when MacLeod arrived. He could be anywhere in the world before then.

But Darius' voice urged him to meet MacLeod. Get to know him. Watch over him, and guide him. How was he supposed to do that? He hadn't had a student since Byron, and he didn't know if he could live through that pain again. Besides, MacLeod was already 400 years old and had plenty of teachers. There was nothing left for MacLeod to learn. He lived; that was all that mattered. So, he was not needed and could disappear without a care.

But if he disappeared, he wouldn't be able to make sure MacLeod killed Kalas. And he wanted to make sure that happened. It seemed his decision was made for him.

Now, how to make MacLeod trust him enough to not take his head?

He extracted himself from the blanket and assessed his bookshelf. Selecting a recent journal, he read what he had written about MacLeod. Almost too trusting, quick to judge, slow to forgive, fiercely loyal. Defender of Kenny -- no one had taken that brat's head yet? -- and Felicia Martin. Oh, MacLeod was a piece of work. It was a wonder the Scotsman had survived this long. He snapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf. He had just the scenario needed to ensure MacLeod's immediate trust.

~~~~

MacLeod was too predictable. Methos listened as MacLeod offered to stay close and protect him. Never mind that he was 4500 years older than MacLeod; clan instincts were hard to lose. A small bit of relief settled into his gut. At least he wouldn't have to face Kalas now. It was inevitable that MacLeod and Kalas fight to the death; it was only a matter of time.

One calculated sentence and a quick exit left MacLeod walking along the Seine. Methos smiled. Things were definitely falling into place.

He should have known better than to be optimistic. On his way back to his flat a Buzz snaked along his spine and he cursed inwardly. His eyes locked on the blond figure emerging from  _his_ flat and his mind went into survival overdrive.

A flip remark was all that was needed to convince Kalas who he was. With the first clash of swords, Methos knew he could not win. His mind whirled through possibilities and he guided them toward the river. A quick swim would separate them and give him time to think. Damn, he was more out of practice than he realized. And he hated water...

~~~~

Weak and unable to come up with another plan, Methos went to challenge MacLeod. He knew MacLeod would not take his head, despite the tiny voice inside him that wished MacLeod would. Five thousand years was a long time to be alive. Maybe it was too long.

But MacLeod held true to form, and together, they came up with a plan to stop Kalas. Almost. He didn't know if MacLeod could beat Kalas without a stronger Quickening in him. The Highlander's strongest opponent had been Grayson; not old enough. There was always Caspian, out in Budapest...no, there was no time to break him out of the asylum. Besides, even though he had left the Horsemen, he could not be the reason for one of their deaths. His oath forbade it, as did his heart.

So Kalas was arrested and Methos disappeared. He had a feeling Darius would be proud of him, though. He did, after all, meet MacLeod. He was pretty sure he left a lasting impression as well. It wasn't every day that you got to meet a living legend.

Sitting outside a small bar in Rome, Methos held his glass aloft and sent a toast to his friend.

"To life."

The End


End file.
